


Crack My Lips and Make Me Smile

by monopolizeme



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Angst, Prompt Fill, Rough Sex, pain!kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-18 09:34:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monopolizeme/pseuds/monopolizeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's the familiar sting piercing into the plump flesh of his bottom lip, near the corner and that feels more like a bit of fang than human teeth and that sends a quiet thrill rushing through Stiles' brain and yeah, he's pretty fucked up, in more ways than one, the boy who played with too many bats at night and stumbled across hidden paths and monsters in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crack My Lips and Make Me Smile

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt fill for my dear [Sarah](http://wolfsbanepunch.tumblr.com/) who asked for a Stiles pain!kink fic, with Derek, of course. :)

They look at him differently now, his friends, odd glances that flit over his face, the curve of his wrists when his sleeves are rolled up and they try not to stare but Stiles catches them still, can't _not_ notice even as they all try to act like they don't think of him any differently. Scott doesn't say anything the first time Stiles pulls at his own shirt to scratch idly along his collar bone, doesn't say anything about the finger shaped marks adorning his throat like a cheap necklace, made of bruises instead of beads, purple-blue and yellow and red gouges that proclaim the stark imprint of fingernails ( _claws_ ). Scott doesn't say anything because Stiles is his best friend and you're not supposed to tell your best friend that you're worried that fighting off nightmares in the dark and monsters in closets has done something to his mind, twisted it up into something inside out and ugly, like the terrible dark pages of a children's fairytale gone horribly wrong.  
  
When Stiles gets changed in the locker room there are welts lining the cage of his ribs, pressing starkly against pale skin because Stiles has finally obtained his growth spurt and it doesn't seem to matter how much food he puts into his mouth, he's all lean, fine bones that show all too clearly beneath teenage skin. But now it’s decorated with pretty red swells of broken flesh, split and cracked with hardening edges, creeping beneath the concave of Stiles' shoulder blades, like wings torn asunder. And Scott can't miss the deep swells of darkened skin shying out from beneath the fabric of Stiles' shorts, perfectly round imprints in the back of his thighs from where someone's knees had dug into the muscle, forced their weight in brutal demand of submission.  
  
Scott doesn't say anything. Best friends are supposed to be _understanding_ , aren't supposed to think of their friend-who-is-like-a-brother as deviant or broken because Stiles smiles a lot more now, like he _means_ it too, not a show for others to see, a mask slipped on by the experienced stage actor. Stiles grins and shows his teeth and the corner of his mouth pulls funny because his bottom lip is split and swollen from someone's fist.  
  
"Going to see Derek tonight?" Scott asks and there it is, the unmistakable glow of life glimmering in Stiles' eyes at just the mention of the name, and Stiles' lip cracks a little and his tongue darts out, soft and pink and shiny as he licks away the bloom of red as the skin breaks.  
  
"Yup."  
  
There's a cluster of bite marks freckled upon the back of his knuckles when Stiles reaches into his locker to pull out his car keys.  
  
-  
  
On Tuesdays, Stiles goes over to Scott's house and they play video games while sprawled out on Scott's bedroom floor. As the hours tick by, Stiles inevitably ends up in some humanly-impossible position that always involves his head resting somewhere on one or both of Scott's legs, until Scott finally complains about the lack of circulation.

He doesn’t push Stiles off of him though.

Because once Scott shoved a little too hard and at the wrong place because Stiles had been wearing too many layers and Scott hadn't been able _see_ where Stiles was still sore and bruised. Scott had kicked playfully at Stiles' stomach and Stiles had let out a choked cry of pain and then there was blood dampening his shirt and Scott had put a hand over his mouth and resisted the urge to vomit because his best friend wasn't supposed to be injured to such an extent that he bled when touched. And Stiles wasn't supposed to be wearing that faint, soft smile whenever his hand drifted above his stomach, over the patch of bloodied fabric.  
  
-  
  
Thursday nights belong to Stiles' dad. On Thursdays, Stiles cooks chicken breasts and a vegetable medley and grins at his father from across the table when the older man eats all of his chicken too fast and is left to pick begrudgingly at the leftover greens on his plate.  
  
His father doesn't comment when Stiles cleans the dishes from the table, wincing each time he puts his weight on his left leg and struggles against his limp.  
  
-  
  
The weekend belongs to Derek.  
  
And Mondays too. No one really likes to look at Stiles after he's spent the weekend at Derek's.  
  
-

"Would you hurt me? If I asked?"  
  
It comes out of Stiles' mouth quietly, and Stiles' eyes are still cast downward on the text book in his lap, one knee drawn up where the spine of his book rests while his other leg is stretched across the couch, his left foot digging beneath Derek's long legs.  
  
Derek looks up at him. They're both reclining on Derek's ridiculous aqua blue couch, propped up on opposite sides and Derek's feet are pressed up against the inside of Stiles' thigh. He's reading something that has to do with English literature, Stiles isn't sure exactly because he's too busy pretending to be interested in his school textbook.  
  
"What?" Derek's voice is soft, faint surprise echoing from his lips. He has that open expression that he rarely wears, and only ever for Stiles and Stiles can feel Derek's gaze on him, and Derek always looks so young when he's like that, childlike beneath adult stubble and darkened shadows below his eyes.  
  
Stiles chews on his mouth, wonders what it would feel like puffy and swollen and if the metallic taste of his own blood along his tongue would taste as good as he imagines it would. It had tasted awful when Gerard had struck him, left his face full of broken blood vessels and made his head hurt at night when he tried to sleep. But once, Derek had forgotten that Stiles was something easy to break and his claws broke free from their human confines when Derek was having sex with Stiles, fucking into him and panting into his ear as Stiles trembled beneath the weight of him, and Derek had apologized for it after, the cuts adorning Stiles’ wrists when he had gripped them too tight and forced them above Stiles' head.  
  
Stiles hadn't mentioned it to anyone, but later when he was in his own room and alone and jerking off to the slick sounds of his fingers around his cock, arching up into his tight fist, Stiles had pressed his wrist to his mouth, sucked on the wrecked skin and scraped his teeth until the scabs broke. And then there was blood on his tongue, his own blood and then Stiles was crying out muffled whimpers into his skin and how fucked up was that,  to be so turned on but Stiles came to the own taste of blood in his mouth, harder than he had come in a long while.  
  
And maybe there was something wrong with that. And maybe it would feel even better with _Derek_ being the one to make the hot flare of pain break out across his skin, wrap tight in his bones and make him feel it for days after.  
  
Stiles gives a slow shrug of his shoulder, like it doesn't mean anything, even though it _does_ , it suddenly means _everything_ and Stiles' heart is pounding so hard in his ears he can't even tell if Derek is speaking.  
  
He jolts when he feels Derek's hands on his wrists, thick fingers wrapping around the places where there had once been marred skin and Derek's tugging for Stiles' attention and he's so close now, leaning in and coaxing Stiles away from his book.  
  
"That's what you want?" Derek asks. His face is gentle but Stiles knows that look, recognizes the seriousness tinged in the corners of his eyes, the concern in the drawn focus of his brows.  
  
Stiles keeps his gaze, nods.  
  
"Why?"  
  
Stiles' eyes flicker away. He wonders what it will sound like out loud, feelings shaped into words, into meaning and maybe he's too fucked up after all, maybe it's Derek who is the normal one.  
  
"I want the pain. I want to know that you're the one giving it to me. That I'm _allowing_ you to give it to me. That you'd stop if I asked you to."  
  
"I won't do anything you don't want," Derek tells him. And Stiles feels his mouth tug, a smile creeping in because hey, maybe he's not the only broken toy here, and maybe Derek could get off on this too, maybe this is something that they could _do_ , together.  
  
Stiles grins, twists his hands in Derek's grip, wraps his fingers around Derek's wrists in return.  
  
"I know."  
  
-  
  
It's difficult for them to ease into it that first time. Both of them tip-toeing around the issue, unsteady and unsure, Stiles not knowing how to ask, how you're supposed to ask for your boyfriend to hit you across the face or fuck you raw because the very thought of it has you jerking off in your bed and covering you in your own come, filthy and needy and shameless. And maybe Derek doesn't know how to ask for it either, how to ask if Stiles is ready or if the timing is right or maybe Stiles is just crawling into his bed in the middle of night because he doesn't want to be without a warm body, maybe this isn't the kind of thing that Derek is supposed to initiate at all.  
  
But somehow they both catch a break, because it's two weeks later that a hunter roams into town and decides that Isaac is a liability and a threat and a werewolf who should be strung up in a tree and gutted like an animal. And because Derek is stupid and the alpha he has to go off on his own and the hunter is only eighteen but he's a lot fucking smarter than he looks. Because it's a _trap_ , of course, always a trap and Derek’s always barreling head first and blindly into it as he always does when someone's life is on the line. Because even though he and Stiles have been dating for a year and five months he still seems to forget all that, that he belongs to someone, that someone actually cares if he's alive or a corpse on the forest floor.  
  
And because Stiles loves Derek, and he _does_ , (stupid, recklessly so), he goes after him and Scott is there because Scott is his best friend and knows that Stiles is just as stupid as Derek sometimes. They get Isaac back and find Derek pinned down to the ground some yards away, iron spokes laced with wolfsbane driven through his stomach and the soft inside bend of his elbows and through his calves. And his clothes are a mess and Stiles is sobbing on his knees, fingers slippery with blood as he tries to pull the iron free, but he can’t, he _can’t_ because he’s human and weak and wretchedly inadequate.  And Derek’s voice is shredded but he's trying to console Stiles even though he can barely lift his head from the damp cold earth and Stiles is breathing so hard it's all one raging fit of oxygen burning in his lungs.  
  
Isaac's hands are on his shoulders then, and Boyd's pulling the metal free from Derek's body, growling viciously as the wolfsbane bleeds into his palms. And the hunter screams as Scott buries his fangs into his throat and it's all a gurgling mess of blood shrieking through the black forest but Derek is safe _, god oh god Derek you idiot -_  
  
Stiles is still furious when they get back to Derek's loft, hurling insults at Derek's face and lurching himself at Derek before he can even think of how stupid and senseless that is. Derek snarls at him, and the red still hasn't left his eyes and then Stiles is being shoved into the floorboards, his bones ringing at the impact and Derek stuffs two blood slick fingers into Stiles' mouth to shut him up and _that's_ when everything goes white in Stiles' brain, snaps sharp in his veins and suddenly everything is so vivid bright around him and Derek sounds like he’s coming apart, _again_.  
  
Derek is clawing at his jeans, not even trying to deal with the zipper and Stiles' hips jerk upwards, eyes rolling back when he feels Derek's hand brush over his cock, half-hard and already pulsing with eager anticipation, especially when Derek lets his nails scrape along his skin when he drags Stiles' underwear down to his knees, just leaves them there in a tangled mess and looms above him.  
  
Stiles is breathing through his nose, rigid and fast as Derek crams his fingers deeper into his throat and Stiles has to fight the urge to gag even as saliva is spilling out from the corners of his mouth, lips stretched wide and burning with the force of it all, as Derek fucks his mouth with two fingers, three, the thick breadth of his fingers making Stiles' mouth feel so _full_.  
  
"Don't ever underestimate what I will go through to keep all of you safe," Derek is saying, gritty and tight and his voice still sounds raw and awful and Stiles is shaking beneath him, staring up through eyelashes sticky and wet with salted tears and Derek looks so intent, almost savage and so _broken_ at the same time.  
  
And Stiles would almost feel guilty over how badly he is turned on by this but then it doesn't matter anymore because Derek is shoving his other hand between Stiles' legs and there's not even lube but Derek's hand is slippery with blood, his own blood and maybe even Stiles'. And when Derek pushes two fingers into Stiles' ass Stiles lets out a scream that is muffled by Derek's other hand crammed deep into his throat. It's too much and it's too fast but Stiles' whole body is thrumming with pleasure, and the burn feels so good, it feels like Derek is trying to splinter him apart and Stiles whimpers, teeth clamping down on Derek's fingers, tongue trapped beneath them but he can taste that metallic copper trailing down his throat and Stiles _wants_ so bad.  
  
And there's no empty slot of time to think if this is right or if this is okay or maybe Stiles isn't in the mood because _he is_ , and Derek _gets_ it, he does, is maybe even turned on by Stiles choking on his fingers and writhing against the forced intrusion of Derek’s other hand pumping into his ass, because then Derek is shoving his cock in alongside two fingers and Stiles really does scream this time, his whole body jerking in shock, back arching off the floorboards and Derek fucks into him in return, grunting against the strained muscles of Stiles' throat.  
  
"So good, Stiles you're so good-" he rasps, teeth against Stiles' ear, his left hand forcing Stiles' head further back and Stiles’ hands are scrabbling against Derek's shoulders, in his hair, the shredded remains of his shirt, anything he can hold on to as Derek just _shoves_ into him, Stiles sliding against the roughened wood with the force of each thrust and he can feel the skin on his back being torn and caught on ragged splinters but he doesn't want it to stop, not ever, not when Derek is making helpless noises in his throat like that. Not when Derek's clinging to him and bleeding all over Stiles, smearing red and ink-black into Stiles’ sweat-slick skin and pushing himself into Stiles like Derek could actually bury himself inside. Because that’s what he’s doing, shuddering violently and breathing harsh and ragged, body clenching tight all over like it’s a fight that Stiles isn’t even protesting. He’s trying to keep up with the relentless push and pull into his ass and in his mouth and it _hurts_ , so bad, a throbbing mess pounding in his skull as Derek slams him into the floorboards, again and again until Stiles’ vision blurs.

And _god_ it’s everything, his skin squirming against his bones as if trying to escape the electric-sharp agony that Stiles _knows_ he shouldn’t like but it’s all he’s ever wanted. And Derek is giving it to him and Stiles’ cock is hard and straining against his stomach, trapped between both their bellies as Derek ruts into him. There’s precome leaking  from the slit, dripping onto his stomach and mixing with the dark blood glistening over his skin and Stiles is sure that he’s going to lose it, there’s no way that he can possibly hold on-

Then Derek’s teeth are sinking into Stiles’ throat and Stiles’ body convulses with the shock of it, as Derek snaps his hips into Stiles one last time and comes, filling him up hot and thick with a bitten off shout that leaves Stiles’ ears ringing. And it feels now that he can barely fit in his own skin anymore, because there’s more than just Stiles’ body inside it all, it’s Derek filling up his mouth and reaching down his throat; it’s Derek heavy inside him and pushing into his veins, wrapping around his bones. Everything inside him is swollen and too tight and he's too high to even know what he's on anymore, the pain that’s setting his muscles on fire, licking up his spine and curling around his throat - and he comes with a sob, throat clenching around Derek's three fingers, and Derek's still got two more inside him, scissoring him open even more as Stiles’ body trembles through the come down.

Stiles’ hands slip limply from Derek’s body, knuckles rapping softly as they hit the floor, but the echo sounds too loud in the sudden stillness of the loft. Someone’s panting like their lungs have stopped up and Stiles doesn’t know if it’s him or Derek, his brain buzzing and his limbs have somehow disconnected from his body or lost sensation because Stiles is drowning undersea, it’s all so fuzzy and warm and _loud_ even though the water’s rushing into his ears and muffling it all out.  
  
Someone whimpers and Stiles thinks that it may be himself, that makes sense, because Derek is shifting above him, _away_ from him and that leaves Stiles’ body shaking and quivering at the loss of contact, of being pinned _down,_ keeping him from flying apart at the seams.

Derek pauses, gives Stiles time to adjust, to realize that he's going to be left empty once more and Stiles' eyelashes flutter in acknowledgment, too worn and exhausted to manage anything else, to ask for anything _more_. He sucks in a desperate gasp as Derek slowly drags his fingers out of Stiles’ throat, past his lips, and they feel swollen and too large and bright hot, the corners of his mouth a ring of burning flesh from being stretched for too long. He tries to swallow, winces as his throat refuses to work.  
  
Derek's lips are on his cheek, a feather brush that lingers on Stiles' eyelids, where the tiny blue veins are mapped starkly through the thin swollen skin; tongue licking away the salted tears, trailing the streaks that have smeared down Stiles' face.  
  
"Easy now," he whispers, rubs his thumb soothingly against the raw puckered skin around Stiles’ hole. He presses his thumb against the dampened flesh, holding Stiles steady as he eases his cock free, halting when Stiles moans and shudders at the pull, hips lurching up weakly to follow Derek's movement. And then Derek's fingers pull out as well, slick with his own come as it dribbles from Stiles' hole, gaping red and raw and Derek can't seem to help but whisper, "Beautiful," his eyes pinned to the puffy skin, shiny with blood and come.

 _Derek_ , Stiles tries to say, but his tongue is too thick and large, much too big for his mouth. Derek’s a blurred form in the darkness of the room, his hazy silhouette bleeding into the dim light of the windows behind him. Somewhere in the back of Stiles’ mind, he remembers that Derek never got the chance to heal and that his blood has been pumping out wolfsbane for the past however long hours and that isn’t fair, Derek should have slept, Stiles should have let him but-

A moan filters through his ears, Derek’s hand splaying warm and steady over Stiles’ chest and the contact feels slippery.

“I’m sorry, Stiles,” he mumbles and then there is a soft thud beside Stiles and Stiles _wants_ to say, he wants to get out, _It’s okay_ , because it is and Derek shouldn’t worry. Derek should sleep and Stiles can’t even form coherent syllables.

There’s a slight pressure against his shoulder. He’s sticky and his skin feels cold with drying sweat and blood; and everything in Stiles is just a dull throb pulsing beneath it all. But he thinks that Derek may have collapsed beside him, that they’re both laying on their backs on the cold hardwood floor, sore and bruised and _tomorrow_ , yes yes, there’s going to be a tomorrow.

-

When Stiles awakes the next morning it’s not to a cold floor but instead warmth and softness all around him, bed sheets smelling of _fresh_ and _clean_ and that familiar scent of _Derek_. The bed is empty though, and Stiles is dressed in a pair of old sweatpants, the ones that he likes to keep at Derek’s and somehow always ends up smelling more like Derek than Stiles anyway.

He's breathing soft and still, staring up at the ceiling and he can't seem to move, a slow sense of dread crawling across chest. Because last night Derek did things to him that people would probably consider not normal and Stiles _liked_ all the things that Derek did to him, and that’s probably not normal either, probably worse. And maybe Derek woke up and remembered what happened, how Stiles had begged for more and cried around the force of his fingers and how Stiles had gotten off on it all. Maybe Stiles is the very thing that Derek doesn’t need right now, will _ever_ need or want.

But then Stiles realizes that at some point during the night or early morning Derek had bathed him and he smells like Derek’s brand of soap and Derek’s favorite kind of shampoo, and Derek had _kept_ him, had cared enough to wash Stiles clean and soothe away the blood crusted in the cuts on his back.

And Stiles hopes, he _hopes_.

The boy in the mirror looks a little horrific, even to Stiles’ own eyes -- bruises scattered across his hips and up his naked chest and his mouth looks too red against the pale skin of his face, his eyes bloodshot and eyelids swollen.

“I should buy you some cream if you’re going to insist on this happening again.”

Stiles smiles, his fingers halting their slow leisurely travel along the curve of his collar bone. He tilts his head, watches as his fingers press into the mess of broken capillaries, throbbing somehow hotter than the rest of his skin.

“You think so?” he muses.

Derek’s hands curl around his waist as he approaches from the bathroom doorway, fingers slipping beneath the waist band of Stiles’ sweatpants, where Stiles is still warm and bruised and wonderfully sore.

“This is going to become a habit,” Derek murmurs into his ear, breath soft and damp, tendrils of heat spreading against Stiles’ shoulder blades when Derek presses in close. “I don’t want you marked up too quickly.”

Stiles smiles again. Every muscle inside of him stiff and he _aches_ so deeply; it hurts to shift on his feet, the barest movement igniting a burst of pain deep in his lower back that causes him bite down on his lip, suppress the smile that can hardly be contained.

“This is going to be a thing then, right?” he asks, because last night happened without either of them planning it out and that had been wonderful, truly, but now Stiles needs to _know_. “It’s something that we can talk about? Because I want so much more. That was amazing, everything about last night was just amazing but I need to make sure that you’re on board with this. That you’re okay with doing what I want because that would suck if you weren’t, if you were just trying to make me happy when you hate it.”

Derek sighs into his neck, his weight falling heavy against Stiles’ shoulders for a moment.

And then he says, “I’m okay with it, Stiles. I don’t like seeing you hurt but you seem to like it more than anything else, that you like the pain, that it gets you off. And I-“ he hesitates, and Stiles isn’t sure if he’s supposed to be holding his breath too but what if- “I like that too. I like seeing what it _does_ to you.”

Stiles grins, his skin already vibrating with excitement, the quiet thrill that has his bones jittering inside of him.

“Yeah?” he whispers, licks his lips.

Derek nods, tilts his head up a bit to look up at Stiles through his lashes, their eyes meeting in the reflection.

Stiles twists around suddenly, his hands twitching by his sides. But he allows Derek to envelopment him, keep him still, arms winding around his naked waist, careful to avoid where Stiles is so obviously bruised and tender.

“Kiss me,” Stiles says, and it sounds a little silly to his ears, sappy and romantic. Which doesn't suit him, he doesn't think, because apparently he’s the kind of person who asks his boyfriend to leave bruises on his neck and dig his claws into his hips during sex and he loves that it hurts to swallow, that his voice sounds fucked raw and _used_. But maybe he's not so black and white, maybe he's a little grey too because Derek likes to kiss him soft and tender after Stiles is bloodied and too sore to move properly. And Stiles likes that too.

“You didn't kiss me last night,” Stiles explains, even though there hadn't been much room for kissing, not with Derek's fingers shoved deep in his mouth and Stiles choking around them and his own spit and making muffled pleads for _more_ , _more_.

Derek’s mouth tugs at the corners, as if he is clearly aware of this all, may even be thinking about them himself. He lifts his hand to palm Stiles’ jaw, skin warm and slightly rough, his thumb resting at the upward turn of Stiles’ lips, right at the corner. He rubs gently across the skin, reddened and a little irritated from being stretched open for so long.

“It hurt?” he murmurs.

Stiles gives a little shrug of his shoulder, tilts his head down in a faint nod, because he doesn't want Derek to take his hand away, doesn't want to deter Derek from kissing him.

Derek echoes the movement subtly, eyes drifting downward and then he's leaning in, blurring in Stiles' vision and Stiles just lets his eyes flutter closed, tries not to smile too much when Derek kisses him, soft and gentle, just like he knew Derek would.

Stiles likes the way Derek breathes too, the way it's slightly damp against his mouth and minty from Derek brushing his teeth and Stiles knows that he tastes like old sleep, and that's got to be a little off-putting but Derek doesn't seem to mind.

"Bite me," Stiles whispers, as Derek begins to pull away. He curls his index fingers in the belt loops of Derek's jeans, tugs him closer, keeps him steady and firm against him, their stomachs pressed flush against one another.

“It'll show," Derek mumbles against Stiles' mouth and Stiles says, "I know."

And then there's the familiar sting piercing into the plump flesh of his bottom lip, near the corner and that feels more like a bit of fang than human teeth and that sends a quiet thrill rushing through Stiles' brain and yeah, he's pretty fucked up, in more ways than one, the boy who played with too many bats at night and stumbled across hidden paths and monsters in the dark. He probably should have stayed away from wolves, the big bad thing lurking behind the tree but whatever, maybe he's Derek's big bad thing too and they can bare their teeth together and be the stuff of nightmares.

Derek pulls back, brushes his mouth over the wound and Stiles' tongue darts out to taste and lick the tiny droplets of blood into his mouth.

"Yeah, that'll show," Derek mutters, his thumb smearing red as he pushes gently into Stiles' mouth, giving him more to taste, harder pressure against the split skin so Stiles can really _feel_ it.

And Derek sounds _pleased_ about it too.

And Stiles is grinning. It's just so good.

 

 


End file.
